


Annulment at Ostwick

by batsy22



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Circle of Magi, Gen, Mage Rebellion (Dragon Age), chosen family, dalish-circle mage solidarity, lavellan - Freeform, loyalist lydia, rebel mage trevelyan - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:34:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29683359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batsy22/pseuds/batsy22
Summary: Trevelyan kills her mentor, Senior Enchanter Lydia, during the beginning of the mage rebellion.





	Annulment at Ostwick

**Author's Note:**

> tw/cw: for a somewhat graphic depiction of violence near the end

Judging by the commotion outside her chambers, Senior Enchanter Lydia of the Ostwick Circle imagines it will not be much longer. The rebels, once her students, have nearly broken through the barrier; she holds no illusions about what will happen afterwards. She seals her final letter to Vivienne and hands it to her ravens. The world has gone mad, she only hopes her dear friend avoids the same fate as herself. 

This rebellion has been brewing for a long time, since even before what happened in Kirkwall. For years, she has tried to avert this suicidal course of action. With Vivienne’s help, she even got the Ostwick Circle to formally declare neutrality after Fiona’s stunt at the White Spire. Lydia knows the Circle is imperfect, that is not a controversial observation, but what chance do her people have against the entire Templar Order? She knows how this rebellion will inevitably end, with witch hunts, mass executions, and the widespread use of the Rite of Tranquility. When her people are eventually forced back into the Circle, she’s certain all political rights they have earned will be revoked; eight hundred years of careful advocacy swept away by the rash actions of a few miscreants. 

She hears the barrier outside her chamber break. Lydia stays sitting at her desk, quickly adjusting her hair and posture. One can never truly be ready for death, but she goes through her mental checklist one last time. She’s sent instructions to Vivienne and made her peace with the Maker. She sends a quick prayer to the heavens one more time just to be sure. Trevelyan steps through the door, armed with a staff. Lydia sees other students behind her, guarding the door. 

“Hello Enchanter Trevelyan,” she greets, trying to keep her voice neutral. There was a time she called her protege by her first name, but so much has changed since she fell in with the rebels. Growing apart from Tara is just one more casualty of this madness.

Both say nothing at first. Lydia looks up at her protege and feels like she should say something wise, provide some parting words of advice for her daughter by choice. Instead she just says, “well this is a state of affairs.” 

“Indeed. Now get up,” Trevelyan orders, staff at the ready. Lydia slowly raises her hands above her head and stands. She looks up at her once protege and thinks of that terrified child brought to this very office, all those years ago. Tara has grown so much since, Lydia isn’t sure if she should be proud or disappointed. 

A week ago, with Vivienne’s help, she had forced a neutrality vote through the Ostwick Circle. It was her hope that this victory would protect Tara and the others, even as the rest of Thedas fell into chaos. She had expected a response from the Liberati, but not something as appalling as this. Apparently, the Maker does have a sense of irony. She knows anger at her Creator is a sin, but she hopes He’ll understand in this case. 

Tara raises the staff, its crystal glowing with mana. It won’t be long now. She cannot detect any regret on her protege’s face, just rage and determination. One might expect that she would feel the slightest bit of sadness at murdering the woman who raised her, Lydia thinks. But bitterness is also a sin, she reminds herself, and she’s quickly running out of time to make penance. 

Their last fight after the vote had been particularly tempestuous, even by their standards. Trevelyan had shouted endless slogans at her, “the people united will never be defeated!” and other trite nonsense that she should be intelligent enough to reject. “The slogan retired, will never be repeated!” had been her response, she can’t help but be a little proud of that line. It is such a tragedy that their relationship has devolved into shouting platitudes. She knows Tara, her brilliant protege, is smarter than this, and wishes she wouldn’t throw her entire future away on a suicidal crusade. There is, however, nothing more she can do now. 

To her surprise, the blast from Trevelyan’s staff hasn’t come yet. Lydia cautiously takes a step forward, hands still in the air, Tara flinches backwards. Perhaps there is some regret, Lydia thinks with some relief, at least she did not completely fail as a mother. 

“For whatever it’s worth, I am glad it’s you,” she says. Lydia has always found deathbed reconcellations trite, but what choice does she have? 

“Now that’s manipulative,” Tara accuses. 

“You believe I’m being manipulative? Tara, you came here to  _ murder  _ me.” 

“You made this rebellion necessary. We have nothing _ ,  _ not even the college of enchanters anymore. You’d rather us be trapped in a fucking prison forever, like good little mages. I... _ we _ will not grovel to our oppressors any longer. Our people have no choice but to fight for the same freedom as anyone else.” More platitudes, she hopes they’re comforting to her. 

“ _ I  _ made this rebellion necessary? So it follows my own murder is my fault then?” Lydia scoffs, “and you accuse me of being manipulative.” 

Tara lowers her staff and runs her hand through her hair, a nervous tick she knows well. Lydia is almost tempted to try something but what good would that do? “I’ve been trapped here, in this fucking tower, my entire life. What other choice do I…” her voice breaks, “we are far past the point of reconciliation. For non-violent civil disobedience, or whatever you loyalists tell us to try over and over again. Your neutrality vote saw to that.”

Trevelyan paces back and forth as her speech reaches its crescendo She gestures to sounds of fighting outside the door, “We will break the Circle or die trying. Our people have no other choice.” 

“I have no desire to relitigate our many political debates,” Lydia is so tired of wasting her breath, can no longer listen to the cliche platitudes anymore. “I am sorry it has come to this.” It feels as if they are just reciting the same lines back and forth, as they have for years. 

“It didn’t have to be like this.” Tara says, Lydia sees her eyes swell with tears, “if you had just listened, if you hadn’t…” She wipes the tears from her face. “Fuck,” she says. 

Lydia steps forward cautiously into her space, slowly she wraps her arms around her adopted daughter. Tara freezes in response, but then cautiously responds in kind. It’s awkward and stilted at first, Lydia isn’t sure where exactly they stand. Deathbed reconciliations may be trite, but it’s better than nothing at all she supposes. 

Tara leans further into her embrace.“I should note that this is systemic, not personal,” she says. 

Lydia laughs, despite everything. “Good to know.” Tara wraps her arms more tightly around her, but holds onto her staff. Lydia is proud of her survival instincts, how she has learned to never let her guard down. She likes to think Tara will survive outside the Circle, won’t end up dead in a ditch somewhere, but she knows the danger she faces. She’ll be an apostate, hunted her entire life. It’s a terrifying thought. 

Lydia holds Tara just a bit closer, while she still can. She’s given birth to two children in her life, both taken by the templars. She knows more than any the importance of chosen family. It’d be a lie to say she has no regrets, who wouldn’t when your adopted daughter is your murderer? She reminds herself to push down the bitterness, and try to dwell on the good memories, before the end. 

“This is  _ so  _ melodramatic,” Tara sniffles into her shoulder. 

“You are melodramatic, love. Just lean into it.” Tara laughs through her tears. Neither says a word for a time. Eventually, Tara slowly draws back, and once more readies her staff. Lydia holds her head high, she’s always aspired to die with dignity. 

“Clan Lavellan in Wycome took in apostate refugees from Kirkwall. You may wish to seek them out,” she says. Those elves have a tendency to meddle, to use the rebel mages as proxies in their own heathen war against the Chantry. She can only hope they will, at least, keep her daughter safe. 

“I know,” says Tara, “who do you think gave us our weapons?” The thought of Dalish elves supplying weapons into the Circle is appalling, Lydia curses herself for missing that. She knew Tara to be conspiring with Liberati and perhaps even the Mage Underground, but not with elven terrorists like the Lavellan clan. If the elves and rebel apostates are both working towards a common goal, Lydia fears this rebellion is far beyond the threat she anticipated. She looks at Trevelyan and wonders what else she does not know. 

Tara’s face is wet from tears, her eyes are red and swollen, and there’s a raw cut near her right eye, she imagines from a templar blade. The rage of an apostate radiates from her very being. Lydia begins to fear not just for Tara’s safety, but what she might do once she is free. 

“For the rebellion,” she says.  The blast of fire hits her in the chest, and knocks her back into the desk. Her back slams into the wood, splinters embed themselves in skin, and she falls gracelessly onto the floor. Her whole body burns, and she sees embers on her robes. But she still is, as far as she can tell, alive. 

“Shit,” Tara says, as the fire drains from her staff, “templar smiting. Fuck, uh,” she begins to frantically look around the office. Lydia can hear fighting outside. “Do you, uh, have a knife?” she asks earnestly. 

“How did you fuck this up?” Lydia snaps, “You come here to murder me and you can’t even,  _ fuck,”  _ she yells in pain as the burning grows more intense. “Just hurry…”

Before she can finish, Lydia screams in pain, as she feels the impact of Tara’s staff against her head. Her vision goes blurry, the thoughts become disjoined, her world shrinks into nothingness. 


End file.
